![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Right, so Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead, Stephan's current theatrical involvement, was a spectacular tour-de-force of ensemble skill and energetic comedy in the service of a superbly-written piece of classically-questioning literature. On Thursday. It made my night, and it'd been a good day already.
Yesterday, one of the leads was stoned, a couple of the supporting cast were drunk, and the rest were trying too hard to make up for them. Every speck of comedic timing was thrown off, and the whole thing was unintelligible. This, of course, as a symptom of the lack of respect the aforementioned stoned and drunk people had for the show and their fellow cast members, infuriated and depressed Stephan, which made life difficult back at Swift House.
This was merely the close to a day that, if it had been exclusively unbearable, would have been more consistent and therefore easier to bear. Instead, the morning lulled me, unsuspecting, into thinking the day was going to be a standard, slightly boring, easily-improved day at school. VW was full of Citronisms, slightly annoying but easy to mock, especially with the company of the class, Phonology was dull but easy to follow, and I was making astonishing progress on a doodle of a dragon's eye I'd started a couple classes before.
Then I called Dan to ask if he wanted to go to lunch. He had a rehearsal, but he gave me his keys to make a Jimmy Wok run. Driving always stresses me out, but it went okay until the guy tailgating me into the parking lot scared me into turning right before I was past the weird little enclosure of below-SUV-field-of-vision metal poles. So I ran into one, with a loud crunch and a pop.
Despite my relative lack of experience, I'd never even come close to hitting anything before, so I had a moment of dazed incomprehension before I pulled into a lovely, perfect parking spot in the first row and took the food out and examined the damage. It was ugly. I had no idea what to do, besides throw myself on Dan's mercy and pay for whatever fixing there was to be done. A call to mama confirmed this course of action (she was remarkably unperturbed), so I went in to the last few minutes of Dan's rehearsal and waited for his accompanist to leave before telling him and trying not to cry. He was unforseeably sweet about it, hugging me several times in commiseration and forgiveness, blaming the 13th, telling me stories of worse and dumber wrecks he's had, and breaking out the food I'd brought.
Tonal counterpoint was a little hard to concentrate on.
We went to my house then, and made all the appropriate phone calls: his dad (who wrote his insurance policy and owns the company), his car dealership, an auto body shop... We went to Demo's, finally, after my automotively-competent uncles had examined the damage and recommended the front quarter panel and door be replaced. I followed so he'd have a ride to the rental place in one of the myriad cars from my house, this time one that happened to have brakes that became almost nonfunctional in the rain. That scared me, it did. Luckily I could just put on my hazards and go 10mph far behind anyone I had to follow.
We got to the shop, they estimated $3000 to fix it, and Dan's further instructions from his dad included making a claim. So I gave them all my information, which felt like both a confession of stupidity/guilt and a subjugation of the Man. Having called various people for advice and to confirm the reasonable quality of the estimate, I was recommended and brought another car to drive Dan to the rental, since this one was... well, I could handle it, but certainly didn't want to, and mama agreed. She brought me our van, and Dan drove it to the Enterprise on Holcombe and Greenbriar, and I sat there for the hour it took them to be sure he would get a car. I had Landscape and Time on repeat, and found myself in a gloomier funk of guilt than I'd had perhaps since freshman year of high school, when I was nearly expelled. Ruining a driving record felt not so different from that.
I made it home, and gave Dan back the stuff of his that had been in my car, and tried to purge the gloom with Wurmstein kids and a multitude of candles, but by the time Ross's recital rolled around, I was in a state to appreciate it without divorcing it from the day. His Eichendorff Liederkreis sounded like it'd been written for him, the Vaughan Williams set was a dream (particularly Silent Noon, which made me think of various other weepy things), and the Liszt set was exquisite enough to make me question my commitment to performance.
Another hour of shaky candlelit calm at home, and then mama took me to Jacob's recital. It was the up-and-down of the day, I think, that undid me. Jacob's recital was the kind of high-quality, high-commitment, frenziedly-organized production that I remember helping coordinate all through the years of Uncertain Outcome and Composition Club. Jacob's composer roommates (he lives with four others and an architect) all performed in the first piece, an Avalon-style found- and invented-instrument aleatory heaven. Plus crumhorns and Rauchsenpfeiffe. The rest of the pieces didn't disappoint, either. They ended with the second instance of 17-tone-singing on record, by Meghan, who agreed it's most difficult and fun when I quizzed her about it afterwards. And there were mango juice lime soda, cookies, brownies, and vegetables for refreshments afterwards. It was exactly my kind of reception.
Which made rushing off to catch the third act of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern particularly uncomfortable. Bryan and Nick chose that night to go, as did Matthew, whose opinion Stephan still cares about to a degree unwarranted by their level of interaction. Stephan was devastated, and it's hard to stay up after that kind of day with Stephan down.
Adding to the sense of unpleasantness was Stephan's explanation of the dissolution of his and Ben's friendship, soon after the announcement of the demolition of the house, which makes Bryan's stay for the first half of the summer impossible. That end-of-an-era, breaking-up-the-band lack of warmth and banter pervaded the house, exacerbated by Stephan's momentary hatred of everyone in the universe because his show went badly.
I retired to bed before he attempted West Wing catharsis.
Today will be better. If only more productive.
Yesterday, one of the leads was stoned, a couple of the supporting cast were drunk, and the rest were trying too hard to make up for them. Every speck of comedic timing was thrown off, and the whole thing was unintelligible. This, of course, as a symptom of the lack of respect the aforementioned stoned and drunk people had for the show and their fellow cast members, infuriated and depressed Stephan, which made life difficult back at Swift House.
This was merely the close to a day that, if it had been exclusively unbearable, would have been more consistent and therefore easier to bear. Instead, the morning lulled me, unsuspecting, into thinking the day was going to be a standard, slightly boring, easily-improved day at school. VW was full of Citronisms, slightly annoying but easy to mock, especially with the company of the class, Phonology was dull but easy to follow, and I was making astonishing progress on a doodle of a dragon's eye I'd started a couple classes before.
Then I called Dan to ask if he wanted to go to lunch. He had a rehearsal, but he gave me his keys to make a Jimmy Wok run. Driving always stresses me out, but it went okay until the guy tailgating me into the parking lot scared me into turning right before I was past the weird little enclosure of below-SUV-field-of-vision metal poles. So I ran into one, with a loud crunch and a pop.
Despite my relative lack of experience, I'd never even come close to hitting anything before, so I had a moment of dazed incomprehension before I pulled into a lovely, perfect parking spot in the first row and took the food out and examined the damage. It was ugly. I had no idea what to do, besides throw myself on Dan's mercy and pay for whatever fixing there was to be done. A call to mama confirmed this course of action (she was remarkably unperturbed), so I went in to the last few minutes of Dan's rehearsal and waited for his accompanist to leave before telling him and trying not to cry. He was unforseeably sweet about it, hugging me several times in commiseration and forgiveness, blaming the 13th, telling me stories of worse and dumber wrecks he's had, and breaking out the food I'd brought.
Tonal counterpoint was a little hard to concentrate on.
We went to my house then, and made all the appropriate phone calls: his dad (who wrote his insurance policy and owns the company), his car dealership, an auto body shop... We went to Demo's, finally, after my automotively-competent uncles had examined the damage and recommended the front quarter panel and door be replaced. I followed so he'd have a ride to the rental place in one of the myriad cars from my house, this time one that happened to have brakes that became almost nonfunctional in the rain. That scared me, it did. Luckily I could just put on my hazards and go 10mph far behind anyone I had to follow.
We got to the shop, they estimated $3000 to fix it, and Dan's further instructions from his dad included making a claim. So I gave them all my information, which felt like both a confession of stupidity/guilt and a subjugation of the Man. Having called various people for advice and to confirm the reasonable quality of the estimate, I was recommended and brought another car to drive Dan to the rental, since this one was... well, I could handle it, but certainly didn't want to, and mama agreed. She brought me our van, and Dan drove it to the Enterprise on Holcombe and Greenbriar, and I sat there for the hour it took them to be sure he would get a car. I had Landscape and Time on repeat, and found myself in a gloomier funk of guilt than I'd had perhaps since freshman year of high school, when I was nearly expelled. Ruining a driving record felt not so different from that.
I made it home, and gave Dan back the stuff of his that had been in my car, and tried to purge the gloom with Wurmstein kids and a multitude of candles, but by the time Ross's recital rolled around, I was in a state to appreciate it without divorcing it from the day. His Eichendorff Liederkreis sounded like it'd been written for him, the Vaughan Williams set was a dream (particularly Silent Noon, which made me think of various other weepy things), and the Liszt set was exquisite enough to make me question my commitment to performance.
Another hour of shaky candlelit calm at home, and then mama took me to Jacob's recital. It was the up-and-down of the day, I think, that undid me. Jacob's recital was the kind of high-quality, high-commitment, frenziedly-organized production that I remember helping coordinate all through the years of Uncertain Outcome and Composition Club. Jacob's composer roommates (he lives with four others and an architect) all performed in the first piece, an Avalon-style found- and invented-instrument aleatory heaven. Plus crumhorns and Rauchsenpfeiffe. The rest of the pieces didn't disappoint, either. They ended with the second instance of 17-tone-singing on record, by Meghan, who agreed it's most difficult and fun when I quizzed her about it afterwards. And there were mango juice lime soda, cookies, brownies, and vegetables for refreshments afterwards. It was exactly my kind of reception.
Which made rushing off to catch the third act of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern particularly uncomfortable. Bryan and Nick chose that night to go, as did Matthew, whose opinion Stephan still cares about to a degree unwarranted by their level of interaction. Stephan was devastated, and it's hard to stay up after that kind of day with Stephan down.
Adding to the sense of unpleasantness was Stephan's explanation of the dissolution of his and Ben's friendship, soon after the announcement of the demolition of the house, which makes Bryan's stay for the first half of the summer impossible. That end-of-an-era, breaking-up-the-band lack of warmth and banter pervaded the house, exacerbated by Stephan's momentary hatred of everyone in the universe because his show went badly.
I retired to bed before he attempted West Wing catharsis.
Today will be better. If only more productive.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
From:
no subject